


Lover's Love, Lover's Hate

by skywalkersamidala



Category: I Medici | Medici: Masters of Florence (TV)
Genre: Angst, Canon Compliant, F/M, Hurt No Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-27
Updated: 2019-02-27
Packaged: 2019-11-06 15:06:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,423
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17941994
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/skywalkersamidala/pseuds/skywalkersamidala
Summary: Novella learns of Francesco's death.





	Lover's Love, Lover's Hate

For the rest of her life, Novella would always remember exactly what she was doing that day. She was in the library, reading an Italian translation of a Greek play. _Medea._ Francesco had recommended it to her once. She wished she’d gotten around to reading it sooner. Every time she came across a particularly beautiful passage, her first instinct was to find Francesco and share it with him, but then she would remember.

Francesco was not here. He was still in his house ( _their house_ ) in Florence, but she was back in Venice.

It was a warm day, and Novella had the window open to let in a gentle breeze from the canal outside. She was wearing a blue gown that was one of her favorites. (After this day, she would never wish to wear it or even look at it again). Around her neck was a beautiful gold necklace Francesco had given her. Her heart ached every time she put it on, but getting rid of it would have been just as painful as keeping it.

Footsteps sounded outside the library, and a moment later her father was entering. “I’ve just received the most terrible news from Florence,” he said. “Giuliano de Medici is dead. Murdered.”

Novella gasped. “Giuliano?” she said, feeling sick to her stomach as she suddenly saw him laughing before her eyes, his head thrown back and his hair shining in the sunlight. Not a care in the world. He had always been so full of life…

She swallowed thickly, tears springing to her eyes. “What happened?”

Andrea Foscari sighed. “He was murdered in the Duomo during Easter Mass. Lorenzo de Medici barely escaped with his life. There was a conspiracy against them. Led by…” He shook his head. “Led by that husband of yours, and his uncle and a few others.”

For a moment Novella thought that he had misspoken, or that the information he’d received was incorrect. Surely this couldn’t be true. “Francesco…Francesco killed Giuliano?” she said, her voice quavering.

“Yes. And he was hanged for it.” Andrea sniffed; he’d never forgiven the grave insult Francesco had paid him by divorcing his daughter for no good reason. “As he deserves.”

Novella couldn’t breathe. Andrea was still talking, but she couldn’t hear a word he was saying.

Francesco. Francesco, her sweet Francesco. Dead. A murderer. Still she could see him smiling at her, looking at her with such tenderness in his eyes. She could feel his hands on her skin, always so gentle and loving, as if she was a priceless treasure he didn’t feel worthy of touching.

She could see the jealous rage on his face the day he’d come to her demanding to know who’d invited her to Florence. She could hear him coldly sending her away to Venice, turning his back on her and shutting her out of their home. Out of his heart.

“Novella?”

Novella blinked and looked up at her father. She had hardly realized he was still in the room.

“You are not upset, are you?” he asked. “After everything that man did to you, bringing such shame and dishonor upon our family…”

Novella cleared her throat. “No,” she said. “Forgive me, Father, I am weary, that’s all. I would like to rest.”

She stood to go, and Andrea gently touched her arm. “I apologize if I ever blamed you for the divorce, my dear,” he said. “I can see now that Pazzi was clearly unhinged. In fact, we’re fortunate that he sent you away when he did. Otherwise we would have been associated with this nasty business.”

“Fortunate,” Novella echoed. “Indeed. You have nothing to apologize for, Father, it’s all in the past.”

She kissed him on the cheek and departed, holding her book to her chest and blinking back tears.

When she arrived in the privacy of her bedroom, she shut the door firmly behind her and took a deep, shaky breath. And then she burst into tears. Novella collapsed onto her bed, sobbing so hard she thought she would burst. But it did nothing to ease the unspeakable pain in her heart.

 _Hanged._ Novella found herself picturing his last moments, picturing him swinging at the end of a noose, and she wanted to be sick. Why did it feel like _she_ was the one with a noose around her neck? Why did it feel like she was the one struggling to gasp in air that wasn’t there?

Eventually her sobs subsided, because she simply didn’t have any tears left. It was then that Novella realized she was still holding her book, clutching onto it like a lifeline. She sat up and opened it, not because she really wanted to keep reading, but because she needed _something_ to do, some distraction.

 _Stronger than lover’s love is lover’s hate,_ the words on the page whispered to her. _Incurable, in each, the wounds they make._

Novella snapped the book shut and tossed it across the room, closing her eyes and allowing herself to feel the raw grief instead of trying to shove it aside. Lover’s love and lover’s hate. She had been wounded incurably by both. Francesco’s death would not hurt so much if she hadn’t loved him. Didn’t still love him, even after everything. And perhaps it wouldn’t have happened at all if he hadn’t hated her.

If he hadn’t thrown her out of his house, if she had still been living with him these past months, if he had still loved her…could she have prevented this?

 _That husband of yours, and his uncle and a few others._ Novella had known Jacopo Pazzi was not to be trusted, everyone had told her so. Especially Francesco. And yet she had trusted him anyway, had tried to effect a reconciliation. That was when the trouble had started, she recalled. It was only a few days later that Francesco was looking at her with hate in his eyes.

Her gut told her that Jacopo had been involved somehow in poisoning her husband’s mind against her. Novella had been able to see the hold he had over Francesco, even when they were estranged and Francesco pretended that he no longer cared about what he thought. But she’d gone to Jacopo anyway, thinking that Francesco would feel better if his uncle was back on his side. How stupid she’d been. She’d driven Francesco right into his arms.

She’d driven Francesco right into the noose.

If Novella had never gone to Jacopo, if she’d urged Francesco to cut all ties with him, could she have prevented Francesco from turning against her, and against the Medici? Or if Novella had been in Florence with Francesco while this conspiracy was forming, would she have sensed a change in him? Would she have been able to convince him to reveal what was bothering him? Would she have been able to make him see how wrong his murderous plots were?

Was Giuliano’s blood on her hands? Was Francesco’s?

Novella reached up to touch the necklace Francesco had given her, so long ago. It was shortly after they’d married. One of the first gifts he’d ever given her. She remembered he had been shy when he presented it to her, worrying she wouldn’t like it. As if he thought it wasn’t good enough for her. As if he thought _he_ wasn’t good enough for her.

But of course Novella had declared it the most beautiful necklace she’d ever seen, had passed it back to him and asked him to help her put it on. She’d held her hair out of the way as Francesco draped the necklace around her neck and fastened it in the back, had smiled when he pressed a kiss to her cheek.

 _It’s beautiful,_ she had said, looking in the mirror.

Francesco had smiled and countered with, _It is you who makes it so._

Was that really the same man who’d plunged a knife into Giuliano’s back?

That night Novella dreamed she was back in their house in Florence. Out in the garden, with Francesco’s arm around her waist as they watched their children play. She didn’t know the children’s names. She wasn’t even sure how many of them there were. But they all had his eyes.

 _This is all I ever wanted,_ Francesco murmured to her. _A family._

 _Me too,_ Novella said, nestling closer against his side, savoring the warmth of his embrace.

But when she woke up, she was in a cold and empty bed, and her dream vanished like smoke before her eyes.

**Author's Note:**

> No one got screwed over this season more than Novella tbh :( I wrote this at the same time I was also writing a paper about Medea in case u couldn't tell lmao


End file.
